


I've Got A Dream

by sweetestsight



Series: Bring Back What Once Was Mine [2]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Tangled (2010) Fusion, At this point it's so vaguely related to tangled it's laughable but you know what, First Meetings, M/M, Magic, Not necessary to read part 1 first, Political Themes, Prequel, This fic can fit so many erotic fight scenes in it, home restoration: the romantic plot device, it's like medieval HGTV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-01-26 16:10:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21376882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetestsight/pseuds/sweetestsight
Summary: It starts, as for some reasons many stories do, with a man climbing through Roger’s window.
Relationships: John Deacon/Brian May/Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor
Series: Bring Back What Once Was Mine [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1541074
Comments: 43
Kudos: 68





	1. Chapter 1

_“See, I ain't as cruel and vicious as I seem._  
_Though I do like breaking femurs_  
_You can count me with the dreamers;_  
_Like everybody else, I've got a dream.”_

* * *

It starts, as for some reasons many stories do, with a man climbing through Roger’s window.

Roger, having been sitting in the dark sharpening his knives (shut up, that’s something normal people do) for the last half hour, not asleep in the least, waits patiently as the man shimmies rapidly up his drainpipe and tumbles into the room. He rolls with the momentum, landing surprisingly quietly and springing easily to his feet.

And then he blinks as he comes face to face with Roger.

Roger sighs, sets his knife down and strikes a match, lighting the candle on the table. “Larceny is a lot easier to commit when the victim is asleep,” he says conversationally, picking the knife up and turning it over in his hand.

The man blinks at him warily through his wavy hair, messy from the fall.

“Well, plain old burglary is always an option, too. I always felt there was more honor in that.”

“Honor is something you care about,” the man says quietly. It isn’t a question.

Roger tilts his head. “It is.”

“Is life?”

“Certainly.”

“Is freedom?”

Roger traces the pad of his thumb over the blade, testing the sharpness as he regards the man—no, kid is more apt. He’s young, definitely no older than Roger is. He wears all black, clearly armed beneath his cloak, and he’s scraggly and thin the way everyone outside of the citadel seems to be these days.

It’s no wonder he’s attempting to commit petty theft, then.

“Are you here to discuss politics with me?” Roger asks flatly. “Or are you here to steal?”

“I’m looking for someone.”

“Who?”

“Brian May.”

Roger tries not to let recognition show on his face. Brian doesn’t need the trouble. Brian is sweet and awkward and perfectly harmless; he studies at the university, he waits tables at the town’s tavern, he is _not_ a criminal, and Roger _is_ a little bit in love with him. Which is definitely not relevant.

The point is the guy wouldn’t hurt a fly. He definitely couldn’t fight off a petty burglar.

“Who is he?” Roger asks dryly. “One of your gang members?”

“You know him,” the kid says flatly. “I can tell.”

“I know a lot of people.”

“Tell me where I can find him.”

“What was your plan, then?” Roger asks him. “Break into every house on the block until you figure out which one is his?”

“Or ask around until someone shows me the way.”

Roger shakes his head with a grin. “This town doesn’t work like that, mate. People don’t help each other here. You’re not in the citadel.”

“I’m aware,” the kid says sharply.

Roger drags his desk drawer open and pulls out a small sack. It’s heavy, and the kid blinks in surprise at its weight when Roger tosses it to him. “Take that,” Roger says. “You should be able to afford another month’s food. Forget you were ever looking for him.”

The kid shakes his head mutinously. “I’m not here for money. I’m here for him.”

He puts the sack down. Then he climbs back out of the window and disappears.

Roger shakes his head and turns back to his whetstone. “He could’ve used the stairs,” he mutters to himself, scraping the stone across the blade once more.

He keeps an eye on Brian the next day, but if the burglar found him he certainly doesn’t seem worse for wear.

His hair is as bouncy as usual. His smile is as smiley as usual. Roger passes him two coins to pay for his pint and Brian drops one clumsily on the counter, his cheeks going delightfully pink as Roger picks it up neatly and hands it back to him.

In short, he’s as perfect as always.

“Hey,” Crystal spits at him from across the table. “Stop ogling.”

Roger turns sullenly back to their table and glares at him. “I wasn’t ogling.”

“Yeah, sure you weren’t,” Crystal snarks. He’s immediately forgiven when he offers Roger his pipe.

Roger takes a drag and then coughs for about twenty seconds. It’s been a while. “Alright,” he says. “What have we got?”

Crystal sighs. “I hit the Eastern Woods yesterday.”

“And?”

“Two crowns.”

Roger squints at him. “Seriously?”

“On my life. The guard is getting better over there. I think the army is moving out for a training exercise. I’m honestly not really sure.”

“Great,” Roger hums. “Well, that’s out, then. What about Lakeshore?”

“You just want to see your—”

“I just want to get a good haul for once,” Roger says quickly, glaring. “As you very well know, as a fellow petty criminal. My gods. Are all the others this hung up on my love life?”

Crystal takes a sip of his beer.

“Unbelievable,” Roger gripes. “Actually unbelievable.”

“Look, you can’t blame ‘em,” Crystal says. He has a foam mustache, which Roger purposefully doesn’t inform him about in a fit of pettiness. “You’re young, you’re hot, you’re 20—”

“These are all true facts—”

“—And you could totally get some ass!”

“—Which aren’t relevant at this time,” Roger finishes flatly. “Tell me who we’re gonna rob next.”

Crystal rolls his eyes. “You’re no fun.”

“Said no one, ever.”

“Listen. As much as I’d love to watch you awkwardly flirt with your government contact—”

“Hey!”

“—I have to remind you that Lakeshore isn’t a good idea.” Crystal frowns. “Actually, that entire side of the valley isn’t a good idea. We never get a good haul, for one, and the army is really bearing down. I’m telling you, it’s only a matter of time before we get caught.”

Roger sighs. So much for that.

“Besides,” Crystal adds. “Your boy? Pretty sure one of the higher-ups has figured out that there’s a mole.”

“What makes you say that?” Roger asks suspiciously.

Crystal hums. “Word is the king is planning on executing one of his advisors tomorrow.”

Roger’s eyes widen. “Bulsara?”

“No. It’s not Bulsara. Relax. It’s the new one. McAdams or something.”

“I don’t know him,” Roger says with a frown.

“Not many people do. Like I said, he’s not exactly a senior staff member. Either way, it’s best if everyone just lays low for a little while. No more jobs in the citadel, and no more fucking around in Lakeshore.”

Roger pouts into his beer. He’s about to respond when Brian appears beside their table.

“Alright?” he asks quietly.

Crystal rolls his eyes as Roger immediately brightens. “Alright, yeah. You?”

“Yeah,” Brian says with a soft smile.

“How was your night?”

“It was good. Quiet,” he adds. “Just studying. You?”

“Quiet, yeah. Just working. You know.”

Crystal gives him an unimpressed look.

“Did you, uh,” Roger starts awkwardly. He isn’t sure how to ask about the burglar, not without giving anything away. “Did you see anyone?”

Brian’s eyes widen.

“That’s not,” Roger starts, then backpedals. That…didn’t come out right. “You know, I mean—”

“No, I didn’t see anyone,” Brian says, still startled. A blush is rising back to his cheeks again. “I’m not, uh. I mean I saw some people but I’m not _seeing_ anyone. If that’s. What you meant.”

That’s not what Roger meant, but it feels like the breath is knocked out of him all the same. “Yeah?” he asks.

“Mhmm. Yeah. I’m, uh. I mean, I’m single. Not seeing anyone, no.”

The cook sticks his head out from the kitchen. “May!” he snaps.

“Oops. Sorry, I’m just over here to give you this,” Brian says, handing him a gold-sealed envelope. “A courier dropped it off for you earlier.”

Roger takes it, frowning. He turns it over, but it only bears his own name in elegant, curling script. “Do you know who left it?”

Brian shrugs. “Just the regular delivery girl. I’m sorry, I don’t know.”

“That’s alright,” Roger says quickly. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

Brian smiles at him sweetly. Roger smiles back.

Here they are, just two clowns smiling at each other. It’s nice.

Crystal clears his throat.

“Right!” Roger starts. “Well…”

“Yes, it’s been good to see you. Er, talk to you. I’ll be off. More work and things.”

“Yes! Working hard! Right,” Roger says. “Good luck, I suppose.”

Brian gives him an odd look as he leaves.

A moment later Crystal’s head thumps down onto the table. “You have literally no game,” he informs Roger. “’Did you see anyone?’ Really, Roger? That was painful to watch.”

Roger rolls his eyes and slides his thumb under the envelope’s seal. “I didn’t mean it like that. Something happened last night, okay?”

“If this is about some exploit of yours then I take back what I said earlier. I really don’t want to know.”

“Shut up,” Roger hisses, leaning across the table. “It wasn’t that, alright? I almost got robbed last night. Or burglar…burglar-ed.”

“Burglarized?”

“Whatever.”

Crystal snorts. “It’s a little ironic, don’t you think? Someone taking all your stuff for a change?”

“Yeah, except he didn’t take anything.”

“You fought him off, then?”

Roger shakes his head. “He didn’t want anything. I even offered him money.”

“What was he looking for, then?”

Roger nods in Brian’s direction.

Crystal frowns. “Seriously?”

“On my life.”

“You don’t suppose he’s a petty criminal like us, is he?”

“It remains to be seen,” Roger says. “We can’t very well ask him, can we?”

“I don’t think he’ll turn you in,” Crystal says. “He doesn’t seem the type.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Roger replies. “It’s a shame. He’s sweet, but he said he’s on a scholarship from the Crown. He’ll probably be working for the fat cats one day.”

Crystal’s mouth flattens. “Shame indeed,” he mutters, eyeing Brian suspiciously.

Roger sighs, working his thumb back under the flap of the envelope. He tugs a piece of paper out, creamy and thick, and scans the cursive quickly.

Crystal turns back to him, frowning. “What is it?”

“Gimme a second,” Roger mutters.

“Don’t tell me that’s your government contact.”

“Oh, so what if it is?”

“He can’t be trusted.”

“He’s got good intel! He hasn’t led us astray so far.”

Crystal gives him a tired look. “I really fuckin’ hope that you know what you’re doing.”

Roger knows what he’s doing.

More accurately he knows _who_ he’s doing, as he arrives at the quiet inn on the outskirts of Lakeshore just after dusk, tracing the familiar path up the stairs and to the room at the end of the hall. The girl at the desk politely avoids eye contact. They’re good with discretion here.

He opens the door on silent hinges. He barely makes it two steps into the room before he’s being dragged all the way inside by his collar. The door is slammed shut and the wind is knocked from his lungs slightly as he’s pressed up against it. Then it’s knocked away even further as a mouth clashes against his own.

He whimpers and tangles his hands in thick hair, blood rushing to his head as a warm thigh is pressed between his own, silk trousers catching against his rougher clothing. His knees go weak and he feels seconds away from collapsing entirely before an arm snakes around his waist and the mouth pulls away from his own to trail down his neck instead.

“Do you know,” Freddie breathes between kisses, “how much I’ve missed you?”

Roger gasps out a laugh. “I think I have a pretty good idea,” he gets out.

“You have absolutely no right,” Freddie says. “Leaving me on my own like this. You’re cruel.”

Roger can feel his grin against his collarbone, and then he’s gasping again as nimble fingers go to work on his belt. “I’ll make it up to you,” he says.

Freddie pauses. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, as long as you don’t _stop_.”

“You’re quite demanding.”

“I’m a criminal, aren’t I? Or have you forgotten?”

“You don’t seem like much of a criminal right now.”

Roger laughs at him. “Oh?”

“Mhmm.” He pauses as Roger drags his shirt over his head, and then he’s standing there, shirtless and dazzling. “I got the drop on you earlier fairly easily, actually.”

“I’m weak for a pretty face,” Roger tells him, reaching down to palm the front of his trousers.

Freddie gasps, then grins. “How weak?”

“Very weak.”

“Show me.”

Roger pushes him backward onto the bed and does.

Thoroughly.

It’s not really like their last time. It’s not like any of their previous times, actually, not that Roger finds that to be particularly surprising. Freddie has a way of keeping him on his toes, and it’s one of the many things about him that has Roger coming back again and again.

This is different, though.

When Freddie kisses him he does it like a dying man. At Roger’s every touch he squirms, and whenever Roger gets too far away a warm hand is dragging him close, always closer and closer. It’s a new kind of desperation, like he can’t get enough.

“You alright?” Roger asks him at one point, stilling and pulling back to study his face.

Freddie sighs, tugging him closer with the leg crooked around his waist. “Of course. Of course I am.”

“Not physically. I mean…”

Whatever he means, he doesn’t get to state it. Freddie silences him with a firm kiss, sweet and surprisingly chaste. “I’m fine, darling. Move.”

He does, and tries not to let it weigh on him that something might be the matter.

But Freddie is as sweet to him as always. When they finally collapse onto each other he’s breathing deeply against Roger’s neck like he’s trying to ingrain the smell of him into his memory.

Roger strokes a hand through his hair. He tries to shift, but Freddie won’t let him go far.

“I suppose we should talk, shouldn’t we?” Freddie asks him.

Here it is, finally. “What’s going on, Freddie?”

Freddie sits up just enough to rest his chin on Roger’s chest. “I’ve got news straight from the throne room itself.”

Ah. Politics, then. It doesn’t matter that political motives drive them to these little meetings in the first place. Roger feels his heart sink. “I meant what’s going on with you.”

“Nothing,” Freddie says swiftly. “Nothing at all.”

“Freddie—”

“Do you want my intel or not?”

That shuts him up.

Freddie gives him a tight smile. “You heard about the execution, I’m guessing. The crown is getting twitchy, and with good reason.”

“Because they know there’s a mole under their noses?” Roger asks, kissing his knuckles.

Freddie’s smile gets a little warmer at that. “Maybe, though it’s probably more to do with the current state of affairs. Things aren’t going well, Rog.”

“I know.” He’d be a fool not to see it, living in rebel territory as he is.

“They’re getting bad, and they’re bound to get worse. People are fleeing the city for opportunity, and the king is getting nervous. He thinks there’s a revolution mounting or something.”

“No revolution could take off against the army,” Roger says. He kisses his hand again. “It just isn’t possible. Nobody has that kind of manpower.”

“If people keep deserting they just might,” Freddie says.

“Believe me. I know plenty of people who’d like to mount a revolution. It’s not in the cards right now. Insurrections always fail.”

Freddie purses his lips. “There’s a first time for everything. With the way things are going I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Roger sends him a sad smile. “Don’t hold your breath, love.”

Freddie grimaces and looks away. “That’s not all. There’s an economic crash on the horizon. The drought has had enough of a detriment. The citadel can’t take much more strain, and when it does…” 

“You’re worried it’s all going to fall on its head.”

“Not me. The crown, and all of the advisors along with it. Change is coming, for better or for worse.”

Roger frowns and turns that over in his head. _For better or for worse…_he isn’t sure how much worse it can get.

Freddie swallows, turning to kiss a love bite on Roger’s collar bone. “Listen to me. I want you to be careful, alright?”

“Change could only benefit me, Fred. It’s you I’m worried about.”

Freddie waves him off. “Oh, don’t worry about me.”

“I’ll always worry about you,” Roger insists quietly. “If there’s unrest, I’m not going to be the one people come after. If you’re not careful you’re going to get stuck between a rock and a hard place.”

“I think I already am,” Freddie mumbles.

Roger sits up. “Do you need help? I can get you—”

“Stop, Roger.”

“—out of here, I can get you away. You can come—”

“Roger, just stop.”

Roger falls silent, breathing heavily. He doesn’t understand the situation in its entirety; all he knows is Freddie can’t die. Whatever happens, he can’t die.

“Listen,” Freddie says slowly, watching him unblinkingly. “I’ll be okay. Alright? I’ll find a way through this. You’ve got bigger things to worry about.”

“Like what?” Roger grumbles.

“Like putting food on the table,” Freddie reminds him gently. “Like avoiding getting caught. Like robbing the transport caravan that’s heading north as we speak.”

“What’s that?” Roger asks, perking up.

“You heard me. Some of the South Palace’s wealth is being moved north. It’s disguised as grain. You should be able to make off with a few kilos of rubies if you’re fast.”

“Wait a minute. Don’t think you can just distract me from—”

“Only,” Freddie says, “if you’re quick. Go right now. I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

And Roger doesn’t know him that well, is the thing. He’s seen him a hundred times, fucked him a hundred times, stared into his very soul more times than he can count.

But he knows him well enough to know when he’s lying.

“Go now,” Freddie says with a smile. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m always going to worry.”

Freddie drags him down and presses their lips together. He kisses him angrily, like he means it, and Roger gives as good as he gets until the two of them are gasping against each other’s mouths. Freddie kisses him one last time, chastely, and says, “Go. I’ll be in touch once things have settled down.”

Roger thinks about it, then; he thinks about telling him he loves him. He can tell when Freddie’s lying. They’re not going to see each other when things have settled down. It’s possible they’ll never see each other again.

But then he meets Freddie’s eyes, and he knows Freddie gets it. Freddie understands; he isn’t going to say it either, but he understands.

Roger nods once and all but drags himself toward the door.

As soon as he leaves the building he starts running. He can’t help it.

Freddie is going to be fine.

Maybe.

Like he said, running. He needs to get the nerves out somehow.

He can’t imagine Freddie getting caught. He’s always been infallible, ever since the day he and Roger met—Freddie, publicly known only by his birthname, the grandchild of one of the king’s statesmen, and Roger, then just a student in a too-good school while his father was still working and the economy was good. Maybe Roger was always a disaster waiting to happen, and Roger himself doesn’t mind that so much. He was never meant to be in the citadel.

That’s not to say anything of Freddie—Freddie who keeps a flawless public persona, ever the doting grandchild with a perfect record, perfectly adept at being just good enough to be boring, just kind enough to be unremarkable. He handles his public appearances and duties in court with a quiet grace that Roger can only be in awe of; and even that pales in comparison to the way he occasionally chooses to ignore those duties—to aid the rebels, to fight against the crown and to support the greater good.

That right there? _That_ is the reason Roger loves him.

So yeah. Freddie is going to be fine simply because he needs to be, and because Roger can’t accept an alternative, and because the world needs more Farrokh Bulsaras, not fewer.

The caravan isn’t hard to spot. It really does look like grain transport, on first glance. It’s a long string of covered wagons and it’s almost too easy to hop into the back of the last one in line and duck quickly to the floor.

They really should start putting more guards on these things.

He cracks open a barrel of wheat and digs around through the grain until his fingers hit canvas, and then he’s tugging with all his might as a sack slowly unearths itself from the depths. It’s heavy cloth stamped with the kingdom’s crest, _FORTES SOLI_ stamped right below it, and Roger spares a moment to roll his eyes at the lack of decorum. He unties the drawstring and pulls it open, and the unprocessed rubies inside are enough to make his jaw drop.

It’s going to be a pain to lug back to the village, but it’ll be more than worth it.

His dismount from the wagon is less than graceful, but that’s okay. He hears guards shouting behind him but the darkness has lent him good cover; he already knows he’s going to lose them. Between his knowledge of the territory and his dark clothes they don’t stand a chance of finding him once he disappears into the trees.

Two arrows thump into the soft ground just behind his heels. He swerves to the side just in time to miss another volley, and one makes its home deep in the bark of a pine just inches from where his head was only a second ago—but then he’s home free, running as fast as his feet can take him as he falls back into the familiar path toward the village.

He smiles, and for a moment he even forgets that Freddie might not be okay—that Freddie might not even last the night. For one blessed moment he forgets.

He runs straight back to Crystal’s, picks the lock on the door and drops the sack onto his dining room table right next to his nightly pint. “I told you about Lakeshore,” he says.

Crystal pulls back the flap and then hisses through his teeth. “What the fuck is this?”

“A tip from my contact,” Roger says loftily.

“Oh, he just gave you the tip, did he?”

Roger smacks him upside the head. “As I was saying,” he continues. “If anything this makes the case that we need to lean even heavier on that area of the Eastern Woods. It’s only right. The trade routes there are still in high use, and—”

“And they’re sure to be overrun with guards come tomorrow,” Crystal finishes for him. “I’m glad you took the opportunity when it presented itself, but even you have to see that this is the last time.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Roger argues.

Crystal shakes his head. “Listen to yourself,” he says. “Not even Sid and his boys would be so stupid. You hear? You’re going to get us all killed.”

“There are good jobs there,” Roger argues. “I mean, look at this. We could have every night go like this one if we keep leaning on the area and protect our contacts.”

Crystal stills. He slowly puts his teacup down. “That’s what this is about, then?”

Roger frowns. “What?”

“Don’t give me that. What’s going on with Bulsara?”

“Nothing,” Roger says quickly. “I just think we should be more careful about looking after the people who risk their lives for us.”

Crystal raises his eyebrows. “Roger…”

“Bulsara in particular. He’s done more than enough for us. I want men on him. I want a check-in tomorrow. Something’s going on.”

“We can’t risk the men,” Crystal starts.

“Bullshit we can’t risk the men,” Roger says quietly, and Crystal’s eyes shoot up to meet his. “That’s bullshit. He’s always looked after us, and we look after our own.”

Crystal blinks. “What’s going on?”

“You were right. They know there’s a mole. He’s made.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know.” Roger sighs. “Fuck. I have no idea. It’s Freddie. You know he doesn’t give anything away.”

Crystal frowns. “It’s a significant risk to our own guys even to send them into Lakeshore.”

“Then they better not get caught.”

“You’re serious.”

“You know I am.” Roger licks his lips. “If we don’t protect the people that try to help us then what’s the point of us doing this at all?”

“Listen, Roger,” Crystal says. “You’ve been good to us. You’re a good leader, alright? Don’t let that go to your head. Making this call—”

“Is my call to make,” Roger says, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to pull rank, but I need to ask you not to question that.” He pushes the sack closer to Crystal. “Choose three and compensate them generously. I want proof that he’s alive and well, and if there is even the slightest indication that he’s not then I want him out of there. The army can’t try to track him. Make it look like a suicide or something. I don’t care.”

Crystal nods. “Alright. Spike, Pete and Clay. I’ll tell them in the morning.” He takes a slow sip of his beer. “He better be worth all this.”

“You know he is.”

“Then we’ll do what we can,” Crystal says quietly.

Roger nods, suddenly exhausted. “Alright. Thanks, Crys.”

“Of course. You want me to leave the rest of this in the vault?”

“Sure,” Roger says. “We’ll find a way to move it tomorrow.”

Crystal nods, eyeing him carefully. “Get some rest.”

“Yeah.”

He sees himself out, stepping out onto the street and taking a deep breath of the cool air. Fall is descending quickly now, and the harvest is coming with it. Maybe that means they’ll get a few final rainfalls to bolster the crops before winter.

Somehow he doubts it.

No, the cold will come, and with it will come the hunger. People will be unhappy before November is over, and with the unhappiness will come restlessness and anger.

Freddie was right. The crown won’t last the winter, not without strain. The going will get rough before they’re through, if they make it through at all.

His feet carry him down the cobblestones before his mind is even made up on a destination. He feels untethered, ungrounded. He no longer feels like his goals are straight. One thought is bouncing around his head on repeat: the crown will fall. The rebels will win. It’s not what _might_ happen, it’s what _has_ to happen.

Doesn’t it?

But how? And why? Surely things will get worse before they get better. Nobody likes the system, but it hasn’t always been bad. Good times will come again. Freddie will continue to walk the palace by day and sneak through dingy hotels at night, and Brian and Roger will continue to dance around each other in the bar, and Roger and Crystal will continue to rob the rich for all they’re worth.

Right?

He can’t make sense of anything anymore. Gods help him, but suddenly nothing makes sense.

He finds himself standing before the one thing that does: Brian’s door.

He hesitates before knocking. It’s still early into the night. The bar is usually open well into the morning, and Brian always ends up working late. There’s a good chance he isn’t even home.

For some reason Roger doesn’t care. He has to see him—if not here, then he’ll haul himself down to the tavern and buy a drink with a handful of raw, unpolished rubies. He doesn’t care.

He raps on the door three times.

Down the street someone’s dog barks. He waits, but nothing happens.

“Brian?” he calls.

He steps back and surveys the building, and that’s when he sees it. There’s a lamp burning upstairs. He must be home.

Maybe he just doesn’t want to see Roger. Maybe he’s enjoying a night in, or he’s in the bath. That’s always possible.

But then Roger’s paranoid, frazzled mind takes a turn in another direction, and he begins thinking down the other road. He thinks of rebels, starved from the lack of grain and desperate for a few extra crowns. He thinks of burglars who wander through windows at night. He thinks of Brian with his skinny wrists and gentle eyes, Brian who spends half his time with his nose buried so deep into a book that he seems to lose all other sense of the world, Brian who couldn’t hurt a fly, and indeed has refused to do so in the past.

Brian could be in trouble.

Without hesitation, Roger pulls his picks out of his pocket and begins working on the lock. It takes him only a moment, and then the door swings open beneath his touch.

It’s warm in the house. That’s the first thing that hits him. For a home that’s probably been empty all day with Brian busy in class or at the shop, it’s surprisingly cozy. He wonders distantly who’s been keeping the fire lit.

The light is still on upstairs, a beacon calling him toward the stairwell. He casts a glance around the darkness of the living room, but he can’t see anything but the grim shadows of furniture and decorations. Brian has never been the tidiest of people, but everything seems to be in its proper place. Nothing has been disturbed.

He starts toward the stairs, and that’s when he’s tacked bodily toward the floor.

He hits the oak floorboards with a huff, a hushed noise compared the thump of his body. A weight lands on top of him, and he doesn’t even think before rolling with his own momentum and hurling the person cleanly off. He hears a short exhale as his attacker thumps into the chest of drawers across the room. Whoever it is, they’re trained to take such blows.

He’s barely gotten himself to his feet when he’s down again, this time by a foot kicking his own legs out from beneath him. He lands on his back but rolls quickly to put the person beneath him. They land in the dim square of light cast down the landing from upstairs, and Roger has only a second to look but he still instantly recognizes the man: the wavy hair spread out on the rug like a halo, the eyes squinting at him in the darkness.

“You,” Roger hisses.

The man growls and hooks an ankle around Roger’s leg, rolling him roughly and pinning one wrist with his knee. “Expecting someone else?”

“The man who lives here, maybe,” Roger snaps. He manages to whip his knife out from the sheath on his thigh, but just as quickly the man is squeezing his wrist until the blade falls to the floor and slides away.

The man grunts as Roger wrestles his hand free and makes a grab for his hair, meaning to drag him down. It just sends the two of them thudding into the dresser. Roger spots the knife laying there beneath it in the darkness just as an iron vase comes falling from the dresser’s surface and lands on the floor beside them.

They move at the same time. Roger lunges for the knife and makes to jam it upward into the man’s ribs; the man makes a grab for the vase, hoisting it over his head and ready to ram it down into Roger’s own. Roger throws up a hand to defend himself.

The room illuminates suddenly as Brian walks in, lamp in hand.

The three of them freeze. Roger looks at Brian. Brian looks at the two of them.

“Do either of you want to explain to me,” Brian says congenially, “what the fuck is going on here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited to finally get this out there! I've been waiting since the last part concluded to start on this, but unfortunately there was a lot going on and I wasn't quite sure where I was going to go with it yet. Please let me know what you think and if there are any lingering questions about the first part of this series that you'd like answered in this part!


	2. Chapter 2

_They got a dream  
We've got a dream  
So our differences ain't really that extreme_

* * *

They sit across from each other at Brian’s heavy oak table. The boy (“John,” Brian introduced curtly) is dabbing his lip with a wet towel. Roger, meanwhile, is carefully cleaning his knife.

“You left a ding in it,” Roger complains halfheartedly.

John squints at him. “When? When you were trying to jam it between my ribs?”

“No, when you nearly broke my arm, you gangly little—”

Brian rolls his eyes as he enters the room, a tray of tea in tow. “Both of you, please try to behave for about two minutes while we sort this out, alright? John, why did you feel the need to try to kill one of my houseguests?”

“I wasn’t aware he was a houseguest,” John argues. “He was the one breaking and entering, wasn’t he? At least I was invited.”

Brian’s tired expression turns Roger’s way.

Roger holds his hands up defensively, only belatedly realizing he should probably put the knife down if he wants to plead his innocence. “It’s not my fault!” he cries. “He was the one who broke into my flat a week or so ago! I was worried he was going to try to kill you!”

Brian’s head turns back toward John, but John is already frowning Roger’s way. “That’s rich,” he hisses, “coming from a thief.”

“What’s that?” Brian asks with a frown.

“Nothing,” Roger says quickly.

“Oh?” John asks. “He didn’t tell you, then? Roger Taylor, leader of one of the more notorious rebel gangs, didn’t make his intentions clear upon first meeting?”

“I’m going to end you,” Roger mutters.

Brian rolls his eyes. “Really, Roger? I already knew that.”

Roger blinks. “You what?”

“Well, it’s not exactly astronomy, is it? You talk about it in plain sight all the time!”

Roger blinks again. “What? I don’t—”

“You do. All of your friends are gang members. Was I supposed to magically not notice that?”

Roger frowns.

“He’s smart, you know,” John pipes up. “He’s on scholarship.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” Roger says. “Thank you, John. So you knew and you just never said anything?”

“Oh, come off it,” Brian murmurs. “What was I supposed to say? That I don’t like it? I don’t, but what does it matter? These are hard times. Not everybody is graced with good luck. I may not know much, but I know that.”

Roger frowns and shakes his head. “I can’t believe…” he starts, then trails off. “Wait a minute!” he cries. “I didn’t tell you because I wanted to protect you!”

Brian blinks. “Okay…?”

“You seem so innocent and I know that the crown would take your scholarship if they knew you were conspiring with rebels, so I kept you in the dark! But you’re not even innocent at all, are you? You’re conspiring with this clown, after all!”

“Watch it,” John snarls. Or tries to snarl. He’s really got quite a sweet face. It’s hard to be intimidated by someone who essentially looks like a slightly demented cocker spaniel.

Brian sighs. “I told you. Luck isn’t easy on everyone.” He carefully pours tea for them both. “John was sent to me for his own protection.”

“Sent to you?” Roger asks suspiciously.

“I may not have lived in the citadel for a while, but I happen to still have connections there,” Brian says. “There are a number of people living outside of the castle who are willing to take in people needing protection from the state. I’m on the list.”

“Protection?” Roger gripes. “From who?’

“From the royal guard,” John mutters.

Roger blinks. “The royal guard? What would they want with you?”

John traces the lip of his mug, expression somehow growing surlier by the minute. Brian watches him for a long beat before supplying, “He’s wanted for desertion.”

John shoots him a look. “Traitor,” he mutters.

Brian’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s a bit rich, coming from you,” he says.

John glares at him for a beat longer. Then miraculously he smiles, a grudging little thing like he can’t quite keep it contained.

Brian shakes his head with a smile of his own. “You know how they start them young,” he says. “John’s been in training since he was fourteen.”

“Why’d you get out?” Roger asks softly. “I’ve heard it’s a sweet gig.”

John frowns. “Who told you that?”

“A friend. It doesn’t matter.”

John shrugs. “It’s fine, so long as you get the job. While you’re in training you don’t get pay. With two parents that’s usually alright, but…”

“With only one, things get a little tighter,” Roger finishes for him. He nods, looking down. “Yeah. I know.”

“Happened to you too?”

“Kind of. My dad left. The state isn’t so good at helping single mothers out, as it happens.”

John nods. “My dad got sick. You know how it is in the citadel. If you can’t afford a healer you won’t be getting one.”

“_Fortes soli_,” Brian quotes sarcastically, and Roger huffs out a laugh that lacks any sort of humor. _Only the strong._

“Without him things got harder. My mom couldn’t afford care for my sister, and without that she couldn’t work. No work meant no food. You get where I’m going with this.”

Roger nods. The story is all too familiar to him. “What did you do?” he asks quietly.

John is silent for a beat. “I had some rebel connections within the citadel. Some people helped me disappear, and they pointed me toward this town. They said I’d find good people here. Not lawful people, not honest people, but good people. People who still believe in freedom and happiness, which the citadel seems to sorely be lacking these days.”

Roger nods. It’s not untrue. Those two words have a tendency to float around between mouths, float down the streets to listening ears, drift across the bar late into the night when the drinks really begin flowing.

“He’s not wrong,” Brian says, looking to Roger. “You know he’s not. This is a good town. People here don’t have much, but they have something to believe in. I got word that I should expect a roommate, maybe even someone who would be interested in making life a little better for other people around here. And I thought of you, Roger.”

“Me,” Roger repeats.

“Yes. You. I thought maybe you and your guys could use an extra hand. Someone trained with the guard, no less.”

John glances away from the table to look at Roger.

Roger swallows. “The royal guard. What did they teach you?”

John shrugs. “The usual stuff. Breaking and entering, obviously, but stealth as well. I’m decent at hand-to-hand.”

That’s true, if the bruise blooming on Roger’s forearm is anything to go by. “Would you be willing to share some of those skills?”

John shrugs again and licks his lips. “In payment? Sure.”

Roger looks to Brian for a beat. The other man is looking back, blinking at him expectantly. “I really shouldn’t trust either of you on this,” Roger says, shaking his head slightly. “Gods help me, you’re both a couple of lying assholes, aren’t you?”

“Takes one to know one,” John mutters under his breath.

Roger rolls his eyes. “See, this is exactly why I should turn you away,” he gripes.

Brian levels him with a look then, hazel eyes completely inscrutable. It feels like he’s picking Roger apart, and all at once Roger is reminded of why the crown funded his education in the first place and what kind of strategist they think he might someday turn into. “You’re going to trust us anyway,” he says softly, and without even thinking about it Roger knows he can’t argue.

He tries anyway. “Why is that?”

“Because you’re you. You’re not honest. Gods know you’re not truthful. But you’re a good person.”

And that, unfortunately for Roger, is what finally does him in.

John integrates himself into their little gang slowly, and between a job well done here and a flippant joke there the others gradually start to accept him.

To put it lightly, it wasn’t quite what Roger was expecting.

“They really trust him?” Roger asks Crystal quietly, watching as John and Clay square off in the middle of the dirt lot behind the tavern.

From Crystal’s other side, Spike shrugs. “What’s not to trust? What’s not to like, for that matter?”

“It’s not that,” Roger grumbles. He _likes_ John, he really does. He insists that he does. He likes all of the people in their little gang. “I just don’t know why they see this as so essential. Helpful, sure, but not imperative. We’re not fighters.”

“We aren’t, though it never hurts to pick up a new skill,” Crystal says dryly. “Hell, Roger, I can think of a few times where you yourself would’ve benefitted from having that kind of trick up your sleeve. Besides, he seems fine to me.”

“He seems fine, sure. He’s just…I dunno.”

“What?”

“Well, he used to be a royal lapdog, didn’t he?”

The three of them watch as Clay throws a punch. John neatly catches him by his wrist and twists him toward the ground.

“I don’t know if lapdog is really the right term,” Spike mutters.

Roger snorts. “What, then?”

“Try ‘rottweiler.”

“Try cocker spaniel.”

Crystal laughs. “Please, guys. No matter how you look at it, he’s on our side. That should be enough.”

Roger sighs. It really should be enough to endear him to John. He’s been nothing but loyal to them in the last week, and that’s all that matters.

Then he thinks of John and Brian living together in Brian’s little house on the edge of town, which Roger knows for fact only has one bedroom, and his mood sours again.

It’s not like it even should. He has no right to be thinking things like that, not when Freddie is still missing.

John reaches down to Clay. The two of them grip each other’s forearms firmly, and John pulls him back to his feet. “Again,” he tells him, and they turn to face off once more.

The three of them wait until the sparring begins once more before they resume talking. “What’s the news, then?” Roger asks Spike quietly.

Spike and Crystal share a look. “Keep in mind that no news is good news,” Spike starts.

Roger frowns. “What’s that mean?”

“We got into Lakeshore alright. I tried to hang back a little, but they don’t know Pete around those parts so I sent him straight in. He went right to the Bulsara residence to find your boy.”

“And?”

Spike shrugs. “He wasn’t home.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the butler said that Farrokh Bulsara hadn’t been home for a spell. He’s gone on holiday with his sister.”

Roger sucks in a breath, head spinning suddenly. “If you mean to tell me that you just bailed town when you couldn’t find him—”

“No,” Spike says quickly. “Of course not. Gods, Roger, what do you take us for? We looked everywhere for him. We asked everyone.”

“Then where is he?”

“We don’t know. Nobody seems to know where they went, just that they aren’t in Lakeshore. Hell, they probably aren’t even in the East.”

That’s something. He lets out a breath, his mind reeling. That’s something. “You’re sure the Guard didn’t snatch him?”

Spike frowns. “There’s no way to know.”

Clay hits the ground again, dust flying up from beneath him as he grunts. John helps him up once more and says something that has Clay throwing his head back in a laugh.

Crystal tilts his head. “This is just a guess, but if the Guard had really gotten him we probably would’ve heard about it already. Treason trials are always public affairs. Isn’t that the point? To set an example?”

“Unless they’ve snatched him and spread around some excuse about a holiday while they make sure he’s really the mole,” Spike says.

“If that were the case they’d probably be bearing down on Roger by now,” Crystal says darkly.

Roger shakes his head. “He wouldn’t turn me in,” he murmurs.

Crystal hums. “The Guard has their ways.”

“He wouldn’t do it. Trust me on that.”

Crystal purses his lips and says nothing.

Clay aims a loose swipe at John’s head. John immediately blocks it, but he isn’t quite fast enough to avoid the swift blow to his ribs. He doesn’t let a single sound slip even as he doubles over slightly.

“Shit,” Clay says. “You alright?”

John looks up, grinning. “Good. That was good. You’re getting better.”

“Yeah?” Clay laughs. “That’s the first time I’ve punched a guy and gotten praise for it.” He turns to the three men clustered in the shadow of the tavern. “Hey boss, hear that?”

Crystal gives Roger an exasperated frown, and Roger stifles a laugh. “Yeah, good one, Clay.”

John looks to Roger, eyes bright, chest heaving slightly, and Roger feels something in his own chest loosen.

“Say,” Spike says with a knowing smirk, “how about you come debrief with us, Clay. Me and Crys got a few things to run by you. Besides, I think it’s about time for Roger to get a turn.”

“Oh,” Roger says quickly. “No, I should really—”

“Yeah, boss,” Crystal says quickly. “Loathe be us to deny you some combat time.”

John looks between the two of them, lips twitching. “It would probably do you good,” he muses. “Maybe if you train a little I won’t beat you so easily next time.”

Roger pauses. “Hang on. Beat me?”

John nods, one side of his mouth quirking up. “Yeah,” he says lowly.

Roger sets his jaw. “Go ahead, guys,” he tells the others. “I’ll talk to you later.”

John grins.

They wait until the others have walked back into the tavern, the door clunking shut behind them. Roger paces slowly into the lot, dust browning his shoes. “What makes you think you beat me last time, then?” he asks politely.

John shrugs, still smiling. “I had you pinned, didn’t I?”

“Just because I was on the bottom doesn’t mean I lost,” Roger says.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Maybe I was exactly where I wanted to be.”

That has something dark flashing through John’s eyes, some sort of glint of humor almost too quick for Roger to catch. “Is that so?” he asks, voice so quiet it’s practically a growl.

Roger nods silently, eyes catching on where John’s mouth is quirked up.

“Prove it.”

“I’m not the one with something to prove,” Roger says. “Go on. Hit me.”

John rocks on the balls of his feet for a moment, considering him. “Just like that, huh?”

Roger doesn’t say anything. He holds his arms out, welcoming him closer.

He moves so fast that Roger almost doesn’t have time to react—almost being the operative term. He ducks to the side just as a fist flies past his head and manages to grab his wrist at the last second, using his momentum against him to twist his arm behind his back. He hooks his chin over John’s shoulder and feels him breathing hard against his chest. “Too slow,” he mutters into his ear.

John twists somehow, slipping out of his grasp between one breath and the next, and then they’re sparring for real and Roger has to scramble to keep up. He’s quick, is the thing—he’s _good_, but there’s something more than that. It feels like John knows what he’s going to do before he does it, and it takes him a moment to realize he can predict John’s moves in the same way. He feels hyper-aware of the minute shifts in his position and the space between them, somehow.

As soon as he realizes it his focus slips, and John manages to hook a foot around his ankle. He takes John down with him, the two of them rolling a few times before landing solidly in the grass. Roger struggles to get his wits about him, scrambling to get up, but as soon as he thinks it he’s pinned for real, John’s thighs tight on either side of his hips and his hands pressing Roger’s wrists into the ground. Their faces are mere inches apart.

The world pauses.

John’s chest is heaving against his own. His eyes are very bright. “Gotcha,” he breathes, and then his eyes dart down to Roger’s mouth as he licks his lips.

Roger’s heart skips a beat, then flops over pathetically in his chest. His heart is suddenly racing for reasons that have nothing to do with the exercise and everything to do with the fact that John’s lips look very soft and pink, and he’s suddenly getting closer and closer as he leans down and—

The door behind them bangs open.

They spring apart to see Brian lingering in the doorway, puffy-eyed and ruddy-faced, squinting at them in confusion. “Guys?” he asks. “I thought you were done fighting.”

“We’re not fighting,” John says quickly, hastily climbing off of Roger and holding out a hand to help him up without making eye contact.

Roger nods. “Just training, Bri. We’re okay.” He pauses, taking in the sight of Brian’s watery eyes and the letter half-crumpled in his fist. “Jeez. Are _you_ okay?” he asks softly.

Brian nods, then shakes his head, then bursts into tears.

They settle in one of the curved booths in the darkest corner of the tavern, Brian exhausted and pressed between the two of them. John has been murmuring softly to him for the last five minutes or so, and mercifully between that and Roger carding his fingers carefully through his hair he’s calmed down enough to take a full breath, slow and steady.

They sit there for another moment in a comfortable silence. It gives Roger a chance to regroup, if anything. Between Freddie’s disappearance, John’s arrival and whatever is going on now with Brianit’s been a hard week. He’s not optimistic; hell, half the time it feels like they really can’t afford things like optimism, especially in this line of work. Nonetheless he’s grateful to have John’s cool head around. He loves his friends, but something about their newest member is already beginning to lend a sense of stability they’d been lacking.

It crosses his mind that maybe John isn’t so bad after all.

He’s broken out of his reverie by Brian sighing and shifting restlessly. Roger throws an arm over his shoulders and Brian presses into the contact, his forearms resting on the table as he toys with the paper still crinkled between his fingers.

“Alright, Bri?” John asks quietly.

Brian nods to himself, not saying anything.

“What happened?” John asks him softly.

Brian bites his lower lip and flips the paper open for them to see.

_Brian May—_

_In light of recent developments regarding the rise of class size and your subsequent fall in academic rankings, your scholarship and academic grants and subsidies have been revoked. You remain a student in good standing and we look forward to your continued attendance at IMPERIAL COLLEGE. Following this letter please report to_

And that’s as far as Roger reads before the letter slips through Brian’s numb fingers.

“I sent a courier to my advisor,” Brian murmurs. “I wrote to him and asked and it’s not true. I’m at the top of my class. I swear, I—I’m not _slipping._ But it just doesn’t matter.”

“They’re joking,” Roger breathes.

Brian shakes his head. “They’re not.”

“It’s bullshit. You’re a good student. You’re in good standing with—”

“It doesn’t matter, Roger,” Brian says, voice cracking.

“There must be some sort of mistake.”

“It’s no mistake.” He wipes his nose. “They want me gone. That’s it, alright?”

“This fucking government,” Roger hisses. “It has nothing to do with academics, then? It’s all just some—”

“You know what it’s about,” John murmurs tiredly. “He’s been living in rebel territory and now they know he’s been colluding with the likes of us. They suspect something but they don’t have proof. This is all our—”

“This is not your fault,” Brian says firmly, a familiar fire back in his eyes. “Shut up. This is not on you, do you hear me?”

John meets his gaze silently, lips pressed into a thin line.

Roger sighs. “So they’re cutting your tuition. That’s okay, right? You can still go, it’ll just cost a little extra. We can find a way to—”

Brian shakes his head. “No. I don’t want to go into strategy and I never have, but I needed that scholarship for the subsidies. Without them I won’t even be able to make rent. Wages get us enough for food and that’s it. I’m gonna lose the house. It’s not,” he starts with a look at John. “It’s…” and then he trails off, eyes wet.

Roger’s heart sinks. He opens his arms until Brian ducks gratefully into him, hiding his face in Roger’s shoulder. “Come on, Bri,” Roger whispers. “It’s gonna be alright, you know that. It’s gonna work out.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Brian says quietly, voice muffled and wobbly.

Roger looks at John over Brian’s shoulder. His eyes are sad and slightly panicked, and Roger knows all at once that it isn’t just for himself. John needs a place to hide, and that much is true; but so does Brian, the one member of their ragtag group of friends who won’t bite the bullet and break the laws that keep repeatedly screwing him over, and Roger is equal parts exasperated by and respectful of that fact.

Still, he can’t just sit by and wait for it all to work out. He’s doing enough of that where Freddie is concerned, and it’s getting old quickly.

“It’s going to be okay, Brian,” Roger murmurs, then takes the risk and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “It’s going to be alright, because you’re going to come live with me.”

Brian sits up, eyes red and narrowed in confusion, his face blotchy and wet. “What?” he asks.

“You’re going to live with me,” Roger says more firmly. “Both of you are.”

“Roger, as generous as that is, you live in a shoebox,” Brian reminds him.

Roger shrugs. “I’ve been meaning to get a new place. I’ve had my eye on a house about a day’s trek from here. It’s a fixer upper, but it’ll have enough room for the both of you with plenty of space for the rest of the gang, too. There’s a big garden and a kitchen and a bunch of guest rooms. It’ll be great.”

John and Brian exchange a look. “We really can’t impose,” John starts.

“Nonsense. You’re already doing more than enough in exchange,” Roger argues. “Besides, help me fix the place up and we’ll call it settled.”

Brian frowns at him. He looks at John again, and the two seem to communicate silently for a moment before he turns back to Roger. “Alright,” he says at last. “But don’t let us overstay our welcome. I’ll just be around long enough to get my feet back under me, and then I’ll be gone.”

With Brian’s resourcefulness and intelligence that won’t take long. Roger would be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t upset about that fact. “You have a deal, Mr. May,” Roger says. He holds a hand out, and Brian laughs wetly as he takes it and shakes. “I look forward to being your temporary housemate.”

“I look forward to being your temporary housemate, too,” Brian says softly, and when Roger looks at John he’s smiling gently at the two of them.

The house sale goes through. Of course it does.

Roger pays with a good portion of his bag of rubies. It only leaves a few left, but he’s not worried. They have enough saved from other jobs to afford food and repairs. Besides, spending the money this way feels right. It’s like it’s been given to him by Freddie—his last gift from Freddie ever, maybe, though he doesn’t want to think about it like that. Either way this investment will be good for them.

All of them.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Crystal mutters as he signs the papers.

“Of course I do,” Roger says primly.

“Which is?”

“I just bought us a base of operations. This property is as far as can be from the citadel, a mere day’s walk from here, and it has good access both to the north and to the trade routes that run to the East through Lakeshore. It’s far away from any major roads,” he carries on, finishing his signature with a flourish, “and it doesn’t appear on most maps. It’s perfect.”

“Perfect,” Crystal parrots. “Sure. Remind me how the fact that it’s about a hundred years old and needs major repairs plays into that.”

Roger hums. “It lowered the price, didn’t it?”

Crystal rolls his eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

“I’m a visionary,” Roger corrects, then grins. “Come on. Let’s go check it out.”

They head west on a short caravan of wagons packed with building supplies, Brian and John’s handful of things, Roger’s collection of hand-me-down furniture, and a few items they’d picked up along the way. By wagon the journey passes in a mere few hours, the three of them sitting side by side on the first cart in the line. Brian lays down backward across one of the many trunks of belongings packed into the back, eyes closed and a tiny, contented smile on his face as he rocks with the movement of the road, and something about the sight sends Roger’s heart fluttering.

“He looks happy,” he says to John.

John smiles up at the trees knowingly.

The house appears through the trees finally, a gorgeous, towering brick Tudor surrounded by a low wall. The grounds are slightly overrun, the gate hanging loosely on its hinges. The glass of the windows is grimy.

“Well,” Roger says with a shrug. “This is it. Bit of a fixer-upper, but I suppose it’s home.”

John jumps off the wagon, landing solidly on the soft forest floor and looking up at the peaked roof. “Home,” he repeats.

Roger digs the keys out of his pocket. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s take a look.”

Together the three of them climb the stairs up to the porch, and Roger wrestles with the lock for a minute before the door swings open beneath his touch. It’s dark inside, not helped by the dirty windows, but already the space feels open and welcoming. The entryway is high-ceilinged, the floors old and weathered with age but beautiful and smooth beneath all the grime. A mahogany staircase winds toward the upper floors to his right, running alongside a two-story wall of stained-glass windows. To the left is a spacious living room, and straight ahead he can see some sort of parlor and kitchen.

John immediately heads straight down the hall, his boots clunking lightly against the floorboards, while Brian wanders off into the living room. “Fixer upper, huh,” he breathes.

“I told you it’s not much,” Roger says.

Brian shakes his head with a smile. “No, don’t say that. It could use a little work, maybe, but I think it’s perfect.”

Roger can feel his own lips quirk up as he starts toward the stairs. “Yeah? And would you be up to that challenge?”

Brian nods, grinning.

Roger laughs quietly to himself as he starts up the stairs. The stained glass is leaving mottled rainbow patches against the dirty carpet even through all the grime on the glass, and the oak of the bannister is solid and smooth beneath his palm. He enters into a long hallway, bedrooms and studies on either side, and has to restrain himself from running to the end giddily. At the very end of the hall is a bay window overlooking the grounds, and on a door to the left is a generously daylit master bedroom.

He, Roger Taylor, owns a fucking castle.

He could get used to this.

They start with the living room, scrubbing the floors until they sparkle and rapidly repainting the walls a clean white. With the three of them working together it takes most of the afternoon, but by the time darkness falls they have a fire burning in the fireplace, all of their trunks and boxes piled up around them, and three piles of blankets and pillows laid out in front of the fire on the hardwood floor.

Roger answers the door as someone knocks three times, and when he opens it Crystal is standing on the other side. “Thought I’d bring dinner,” he says, handing over a sack. “Leave it to you idiots to go and accidentally starve yourselves.”

“Thanks, Crys,” Roger breathes. He can smell fresh bread through the fabric and his mouth waters. “Stay for a spell?”

“Nah. Just coming to drop that off. I thought I’d get back to town early and bring some more supplies in the morning. Need anything?”

“Rags,” Roger says instantly. “Floor polish. Some more paint. Food.”

“Got it,” Crystal says. “It might take a while, just in fair warning. It’s only me for now. The rest of the guys are held up.”

Roger frowns. “Why?”

“There’s a stir in town. Someone new has been around. We’re keeping an eye out. Word is he’s looking for Brian.”

“For Brian?” Roger asks, stiffening immediately. “Is he government?”

Crystal shakes his head. “We’re not really sure, but it doesn’t sound like it. They say he’s a rebel like the rest of us.”

“That’s nice, at least,” Roger says with a shrug. “Do you know who he is?”

“No. I’ll try to dig more up.”

“Alright. Lead him off our scent.”

“Already on it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

Roger watches as he walks through the garden and toward his horse. He closes the heavy oak door, locking it securely and returning to the living room.

John’s eyes widen at the smell of food. “Who was that?”

“Crystal.” He sits down on his blanket pile, reaching into the sack and tearing the bread into portions before passing it around. “He came bearing gifts.”

John’s eyes brighten as he unearths a mound of soft cheese.

“Any news?” Brian asks through a mouthful of bread.

Roger nods. “There’s someone after you, Bri. No word on who.”

Brian frowns. “Government?”

“Nah. A rebel. Are you in cahoots with any other dirty crooks?”

Brian shakes his head slowly. “No. I’ve got a few friends in the citadel, but that’s it. All the rebels I know are friends of yours.”

John looks at Roger worriedly. “I suppose it’s a good thing we’ve left town, then.”

“I suppose so,” Roger answers.

The house is rapidly growing cozy, the space comfortable and welcoming. It’s easy to be lulled into a sense of safety, especially with a full stomach and the rhythmic breathing of his friends around him.

Despite that, Roger and John wordlessly sleep on either side of Brian that night. When Roger sees a blade catch the light of the fire as John stashes it beneath his pillow he doesn’t say anything about it.

“Can you go any harder?” Roger pants.

John glares at him, cheeks red with exertion. “Believe me when I say I’m going as hard as I can.”

Roger grunts and digs his heels in harder, back aching where it’s pressed up against the back of the wagon. John hisses and turns sideways, jamming into the wood with his shoulder, and between one breath and the next it’s leaving the rut it’s gotten stuck in and landing solidly back on the path.

“Fuck,” Roger breathes. “Well, that’s my work done for the day.”

John sends him an exasperated smile as the wagon drifts to a stop, the mule pulling it looking back in confusion. “That’s very funny.”

They’d made good progress the last few days—enough to move some furniture in, at least. The kitchen is clean now and stocked with the essentials, the second floor still being diligently cleaned. The windows on the first floor are all sparkling thanks to Brian’s hard work, and the spacious rooms have gone from gloomy and church-like to luxuriously bright and open.

It’s coming along.

Brian is busy inside, moving all their things into the cleaned and refinished master bedroom so they can make room to clean the rest of the living room. Even that is being put off—the other bedrooms have to be cleaned before the rest of the gang comes in from the village—but it’ll all get done in good time.

They’re having fun with it, anyway.

The new wagonload has a few caskets of wine which the three of them are planning of taking full advantage of tonight. They deserve it, after all. They deserve some sort of reward after all the hard work.

The two of them hop on the back of the wagon, settling side-by-side as John nudges the mule back into motion. It’s peaceful, for one brief moment. It’s nice.

Of course John has to ruin it.

“There’s a letter here,” he says.

Roger frowns. “Eh?”

“Right here.” He tugs a folded piece of paper out of one of the trunks of provisions behind them. “Look.” He flips it open.

_Boss + co, _

_The word is the guy on Brian’s tail slipped town last night to head east. We’re trying to track him right now, but it looks like he’s on his way to the Far East with a convoy. Will report back. _

_C_

Roger lets out a breath. “That’s a relief, then. I guess he gave up the chase, huh?”

“I guess so,” John says. “Do you think he’s going to double back? Try to catch us by surprise?”

Roger hums. “I doubt it. He’s going to have a hell of a time locating us if that’s his plan.”

“You think so?”

“Well he’s had trouble for this long, hasn’t he?” Roger muses. “We’re practically impossible to find out here. I think we’re safe.”

“If you say so.”

“Oh, what do you have against a little optimism?” Roger asks him, nudging their shoulders together.

John gives him a tired look. “Cynicism is safe. A little paranoia never hurt anybody.”

“You could do with letting go a little. Have a little fun. You’ve made it this far. You’re safe, John.”

John frowns, humming. “I don’t know.”

“Come on,” Roger says. He nudges him again and this time John looks up, meeting his eyes carefully. “Let’s take the night off and just do something fun for a change. You know I’m right. You’ve got to stop running eventually.”

John looks at him a little helplessly. “Why?”

“You know why. You’ll wear yourself out.”

John studies him for a minute longer, seemingly lost in thought. He doesn’t say a word as the wagon rolls to a stop in front of the house, and Roger hops down into the dust to begin unloading their supplies. He is quiet for so long that Roger practically forgets the conversation entirely.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he says finally.

Roger frowns. “What?”

“About us letting loose. Maybe you’re right.”

Roger grins at him. “I’m always right,” he proclaims, and John smiles back.

“If you want to get someone _down,_” John is saying between giggles, his cheeks flushed, “you just need to exert the right amount of force.” The two of them go tumbling onto the pile of blankets in the living room, giggling as they fall.

The stash of wine is all but depleted.

Let loose is what they did; let loose, indeed. The three of them started drinking around dinner and the night had just devolved from there—singing loudly in the living room, hurling pillows at each other, drinking more, chasing each other through the house, drinking _more._ Now, well.

Now it appears they’re sparring.

“I always beat you,” Roger says loudly, wrestling John over and landing bodily on top of him. John grins, steadying Roger with a gentle hold on his hips. “I don’t know why everyone sees you as the combat guru when I literally always win.”

“You’ve never won once,” John tells him.

“That’s a lie and you know it. I always end up right where I want to be.”

“Yeah?” John breathes, swallowing.

“Of course.”

The air between them feels heavy all of a sudden, like cream or honey, and Roger barely knows how to breathe through it let alone close the space. John blinks, his eyes flickering to Roger’s mouth, and time feels fake and flexible and frozen all at once.

“Roger!” Brian calls from the kitchen. “Will you help me with the washing up?”

“I can help,” John says immediately.

Roger rolls off of him quickly, leaving John laying on his back blinking up at the ceiling in confusion. “No, no,” he says. “You’ve been working all day. Besides, you did them yesterday.”

“I don’t want to freeload,” John argues.

“Tend the fire, then,” Roger tells him. “Don’t worry about it. We won’t take long, anyway.”

John nods, conceding the point quickly as he settles more comfortably.

Roger trots to the kitchen, where Brian is already elbow-deep at the sink. His cheeks are flushed pink, eyes bright, and he sends Roger a sunny smile as he comes closer.

“Alright?” Roger asks.

“Thanks. Pass me those?” he adds, nodding toward a pot on the table.

Roger passes it over and watches as it disappears into the soap suds. He picks up a towel and starts drying the clean dishes sitting on the counter.

They work through the pile side-by-side in silence, and the domesticity of it seeps into his bones faster than he can blink. Having him here by his side and building a home with him is even more intoxicating than the wine.

“How’s John doing out there?” Brian asks him. “I hope he’s not causing too much trouble.”

“No, he could never,” Roger says quickly. 

Brian lets out a breath. “I’m glad. I was worried that you guys weren’t getting along.”

“Weren’t getting along?”

“It’s your house,” Brian points out. “I didn’t want—I don’t know, I was worried about him. That he’d leave or that you’d—I mean, I didn’t think that you’d throw him out, but—”

“I would never,” Roger says. “It’s alright. I can see why you’d be worried, but I’d never do that.”

“Good. I’m glad. He’s—I care about him, you know?”

Roger nods noncommittedly. “You care about him?”

“Well, he really grows on you.”

“Are you and him—”

“No, nothing like that,” Brian says quickly. “I mean—well, it’s not really in that sense.”

Roger frowns as his buzzing brain tries to keep up. “What?”

“We kissed,” Brian blurts, then blushes. “And then we…”

“You what?” Roger asks him, suddenly _very _interested in whatever mental image his words are about to inspire. The idea of the two of them together doesn’t inspire the kind of jealousy he’d thought it would.

“You know,” Brian says quickly. “I mean, you know. You don’t want to hear all that.”

Roger does. He desperately wants to ask _what_ it is that he apparently doesn’t want to hear. It’s probably an overstepping of boundaries, though. Brian likely won’t give him a straight answer, anyway.

He sets down the final dish, and Brian nods his thanks as he hands over the towel. The two of them begin back down the hall toward the living room.

“You could’ve left that for the morning, you know,” Roger says. “We’ve done enough work today.”

“If we left it for the morning we’d have just wanted to put it off further. Besides, I’ve got to earn my keep, haven’t I?” Brian says.

“You guys don’t need to keep doing that.”

Brian blinks at him. “Doing what?”

“Trying to earn your stay.”

“Well, I have to do something. You told me I could stay here as long as I help you fix the place up.”

“I don’t care about that. I want you here.”

Brian pauses. “Yeah?”

Roger nods slowly, taking the last dish from Brian and drying it methodically. “Yeah. Really. I like you guys.”

“You do?” Brian murmurs.

“I do. Of course I do. I like both of you.”

“In what way?”

They round the corner, and Roger is met with the sight of John curled up in the blankets in front of the fire, thoroughly asleep. “Oh,” Roger says, voice hushed. “He’s gone and worn himself out, hasn’t he? See, this is why you guys should take it easy.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a good night’s sleep,” Brian replies quietly.

“Even so. Aww, he’s adorable.”

“Hey Roger?” Brian asks.

Roger turns to look at him, and Brian’s eyes are very wide in the darkness. “Yeah?” Roger asks in a whisper.

He watches Brian’s adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “What did you mean when you said you like us?”

Roger’s breath catches. All at once his heart is pounding. “What do you think I meant?”

Brian blinks, and Roger swears he doesn’t imagine his eyes flicking quickly down to Roger’s mouth. “I want to hear you say it,” he says.

Roger’s throat feels suddenly dry. “Would you hold it against me?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On what you say,” Brian says, and if he weren’t so serious it would almost come out teasingly.

“I care about you guys,” he says, measuring his words carefully, “the same way that you care about John. The same way you feel about each other.”

Now Brian’s eyes are definitely on his mouth, focused and serious.

Roger licks his lips nervously. “How about that? Would you hate me for it if I told you—”

Brian leans forward abruptly and kisses him.

It takes Roger’s brain a minute to catch up with what’s happening—Brian’s mouth soft against his own, his fingers trembling slightly against Roger’s cheek—and then he sighs into it and presses forward, tracing his hands through Brian’s hair to hook around the back of his neck and drag him closer. He ruins it a bit by smiling into it like an idiot (because finally, _finally _this is happening) but then Brian’s tongue is tracing the seam of his lips and licking into his mouth, and he can’t think anymore at all.

He presses closer until Brian stumbles backward against the doorway, and Brian gasps before they settle against it. He lets out a cut-off sound as Roger bites lightly on his bottom lip, and all of a sudden all Roger can think about is pulling that noise from him again.

Someone raps on the front door.

Roger pulls back quickly, freezing as he listens.

“Rog, it’s probably Crystal,” Brian whispers. “Just ignore it. He’s got a key.”

Roger shakes his head, ignoring Brian’s little noise of displeasure as he pulls away further.

The person raps on the door again.

A movement catches Roger’s attention, and he turns to see John sit up, meeting his eyes as he silently pulls a knife out from beneath a pillow.

“It’s just Crystal,” Brian says again weakly.

“Brian, get behind John.”

Brian huffs. “I don’t need—”

“Please. Now.” 

Brian’s eyes widen at his tone and he moves quickly into the living room.

Roger paces slowly to the door. He looks to John, who gives him a nod. He reaches forward and twists the lock before pulling it open quickly.

He’s met with a pair of dark eyes. Standing on the porch, fist raised to knock on the door once more, Freddie Bulsara blinks in surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for standing by for that long wait! I hope the length of this made up for it <3 questions/comments/concerns? Let me know your thoughts, I'd love to hear from you!


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